


downside dance

by Sparrows



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 02:00:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11864292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrows/pseuds/Sparrows
Summary: "you should join us," he says, gesturing towards the bonfire where the others are still standing. "take the night off. we're not going to start failing the rites now just because you took your nose out of the book for a night, my friend."during a brief break from the rites, hedwyn tries to get the reader to relax.





	downside dance

**Author's Note:**

> originally written on the supergiant games discord, posted here for safe-keeping!
> 
> i can offer no explanation or excuse. i just wanted fluff. ([the kingdom dance sequence and music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYfySVrQxto) _might_ have been my inspiration for all this.)

One night, when the weather is warm despite the late hour, the Nightwings gather round an indulgent bonfire that roars and snaps happily in a plume of pyre-like light. The Reader brings the Book out with them and sits cross-legged in the short, soft grass, close enough to the fire to read. Pamitha's moonshine is being passed around - poured into cups or else drank liberally from the bottle - and they have a small cup of their own cradled between their palms, sipping from it occasionally or else balancing it upon one spindly knee in order to reach forth and turn a page.

Distracted with the words on the page, they nearly jump out of their skin when Hedwyn throws himself down into the grass beside them. He's grinning, hair even messier than usual and cheeks tinted with a rosy blush under the bronze skin - it's a night for cheer, for warmth, for joyful celebration of nothing in particular, for forgetting for a night the dread of the Rites and their impending end. The Reader cannot quite make themself share in that joy, but there's really no reason to deny it to the others who surely need it most.

"Having fun?" Hedwyn asks, his Sahrian softened round the edges by maybe a little more moonshine than is advisable. When the Reader nods, he laughs. "You should join us," he says, gesturing towards the bonfire where the others are still standing, laughing, joking - as if nothing is wrong. "Take the night off. We're not going to start failing the Rites now just because you took your nose out of the Book for a night, my friend."

The Reader pauses, setting aside the cup of moonshine. (They've never liked moonshine; they're quite glad of the excuse to stop trying to drink it.) "We might," they say, fingers skimming the soft-glowing bindings of the book. "I... I can't risk it, Hedwyn. I.... nn. I don't. I don't want to be the reason for... our _failure_." They cough once, briefly, into their fist.

"If we fail," he says, leaning in close, "the blame is not on your shoulders alone." He reaches out, skimming his fingers along their shoulder and the cloak bundled tightly to their form. "Come on. Relax with us. It's one night."

The Reader has never been able to deny Hedwyn anything for long. They close the Book and set it aside, carefully; they can retrieve it later, once the revelry is done. When that is done they begin to stand, accepting help from Hedwyn when he makes it to his feet faster than they do. They wind up leaning heavily against him a moment, and find themself praying that he might, in his tipsy state, miss the warmth across their face.

He drags them towards the bonfire, and it's Mae who looks up first, face splitting into a beaming grin. "Hedwyn!" she crows, nearly tipping over in her excitement. "Tariq, he said, he said he would play a _song_  for us! One to dance to, this time, not one of the other ones - they're pretty, but not really for dancing, I think." Tariq, leaning against the blackwagon nearby, a phantom in the fading light, merely tips his hat and murmurs his agreement.

Hedwyn laughs, the sound loud and clear in the dusk air. He turns to the Reader and is perplexed only for a moment to find their hands still entwined. Then he shrugs and looks from their joined hands to the Reader's face. "How about it?" he says. "Feeling up to a dance?"

They snatch their hand away as if Hedwyn's touch burned like the Pyre, like the bonfire whose light haloes him. "I - I can't," they say. "My leg, I... Hedwyn, I don't even know _how_  to dance." Tears prickle, hot and treacherous, at the corners of their eyes; their shoulders hunch, and they watch Hedwyn's tipsy grin falter.

"Hey," he says, stepping closer. "Don't worry about it. I can lead, and it doesn't have to be for long." He tips his head to the side, studying their face in the dark. He reaches out and gently snags their chin in one hand; the touch feels electric, and the Reader shudders under it even as they tilt their face towards his. "Please?" he asks, softer than before.

"...One dance."

"Great!" He's beaming again, dropping his hand from the Reader's face - they mourn the loss of contact, however slight - and waving to Tariq. "Something lively," he says cheerfully, "but not too much!"

Tariq cracks the tiniest of smiles, pushing off the wagon with his foot and unslinging his lute. "I am certain I could manage that," he says, setting his fingers to the strings. And then he begins to play. The tune is light, almost playful; it carries in the cool air, and the Reader finds themself humming along piecemeal as Tariq plucks the strings. Something - some sadness they hadn't realised they yet carried - uncurls from around their ribs, leaving them feeling light.

Hedwyn turns back, raises their still-joined hands. "Here we are," he says, before stepping a pace closer and lowering his voice. "Follow my lead, my friend, and don't strain yourself. This is supposed to be fun." Then he steps away, a glint in his eye once more, and pulls the Reader into - well, they assume it is a dance, though they're not familiar with the steps.

They lose track, somewhere, lost in Tariq's for-once joyful music and the way Hedwyn seems to constantly move around them; he keeps _spinning_  them, and it throws them off-step, but then their feet find the rhythm again and they find themself laughing, following his lead just as they were told to, feeling light and breathless and - inexplicably, happy.

The song picks up tempo as they go, faster and faster, and the Reader thinks maybe someone - Mae? - is clapping, or snapping their fingers, and it's _dizzying_  in such a good way that for a moment they forget the pain and stiffness in their leg, content to be whirled around the bonfire in Hedwyn's arms, happy and laughing and grinning down at them, their faces close, their bodies alternating between close and far as they spin and step--

\--and then the music hits a high point, and Tariq's last note rings through the air, and the Reader and Hedwyn come to a stop, haloed in the bonfire's light, staring at each other, hands clasped, chests heaving for breath. They feel dizzy, but not entirely from the spinning dance; it is more like Hedwyn himself has made them so, with the way he grins down at them with his headband askew and his cheeks painted rich red.

For several long seconds, neither of them dare move.

And then the spell breaks, the last plucked note fading from the air. The Reader is the first to move, pulling away from Hedwyn with a stuttered set of nothings, words that splutter uselessly, wringing their hands. Hedwyn gives another chuckle - warm and soft - and throws his arm around their shoulders. Someone whistles in the background.

"See? That was fun," he says, squeezing their shoulders. "You laughed."

"I did," they admit quietly, leaning against him. They still feel dizzy, like a part of them is still twirling around in Hedwyn's arms. "That was nice." He's steering them off to the side, as the others follow their example, Tariq shifting to other songs to accompany other dances - though none so lively, the Reader thinks, as their own. When they sit down, their leg practically buckles beneath them, and with a quiet 'ah' the Reader almost ends up face-first in the grass before Hedwyn shoves his arms out to catch them.

"Careful." He lowers them to the ground more carefully, sitting down facing the bonfire to watch the others. The Reader reclines between his outstretched legs, feeling... tired, maybe, now that they're not being powered along by Hedwyn's infectious glee. Their back is braced against his chest; he could push his chin against their head, if he wanted. The position is comfortable, exceedingly so. They loop one arm around Hedwyn's leg, patting gently at his knee before looking up into his face, flipped upside-down by their seating.

They smile. "Thank you." The words come out tired and quiet, but no less sincere, and Hedwyn returns a smile of his own. There is something there, behind his eyes, perhaps brought closer to the surface by the drink but still not quite visible. Something quiet and gentle.

"You looked like you needed to relax," he says with a shrug. They sink back against him, aware that perhaps this is not entirely proper but unwilling to care. Maybe they'd drank more moonshine than they first suspected. Whatever the case, something starts to drag at their eyelids, and they make little effort to resist.

The Reader falls asleep like that, feeling fingers running through their hair and lulled by the sound of someone's humming, reverberating through their back.


End file.
